Safe Risk
by Ydream08
Summary: If I knew my choice that day would come and bite me in the arse eventually, severely, I wouldn't have done it. Shite. I might have done it either way. The way he looks at me, I think maybe it will all worth it. But the catch is, I risked with his life once, and for the second time I may not get away with it. Not even if it is for him, for me, for us.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

 **!Warning! I don't use triggers in general. It is rated M.**

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 **Safe Risk**

 _by Ydream08_

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 **Summary:** If I knew my choice that day would come and bite me in the arse eventually, severely, I wouldn't have done it. Shite. I might have done it either way. The way he looks at me, I think maybe it will all worth it.

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Prologue

His head is heavy on my shoulder. He might be asleep, I don't know. Ronald is simply spent. It is the first time I saw him cry, actually. He was terrified that one time Mr Weasley was poisoned, bitten, but when Ginny had broken into tears, Ron had been strong.

This time, I think it was only natural for him to cry. I noticed how Bill and Percy did not. The eldest brothers were stoic when they were stood by their family; all surrounding two members who are no longer with them.

Exhaling, I force my eyes against blinking. If I close my eyes, I know I will fall asleep. I didn't cry at all, and my brain needs a way to shut all of my jumbled thoughts and shake myself off the shock. Sleep is the most logical solution to my understandable exhaustion, too.

That isn't acceptable, though. I can't just _turn-off_. I have to be here for Harry, Ron and the Weasleys. Most importantly, I don't want the flash of images of those we lost. I will see them all if I dare close my eyes- and if I sleep, nightmares will haunt me. Awful ones.

It has been some time since faces and bodies were covered, but it is just so easy for me to remember them. See their faces and count the dead.

My heart drops at the thought, but I can't help it. When the smell of dirt, dust and blood taints the Great Hall, which has one of its walls in crumbles, I can't just forget about the past hour or two.

Voldemort fell. Most of the Death Eaters were hauled up. If I listen closely enough, past the murmurs of many healing spells and cries of pained survivors, I can probably hear one or two sparrings from outside of those Death Eaters who were not cooperating.

My eyes catch movement from the left, and I witness a woman falling into her knees with a shrill cry. She calls out a name which I can't quite distinguish, but with Madame Pomfrey who is close to the woman and a lying body, I understand the picture adequately. She must have lost her child.

"Ginny," Ron whimpers next to me and draws my attention. "Ginny, too. Not only Fred. Fred! "He lifts his head from my shoulder, then covers his face in his hands. Once again he cries for his sister and brother.

I don't know what to do. Yes, I held him the first time he saw both his siblings lying on the cold hard floor dead, but even then, he broke away from my embrace to seek his mother. He needs his family.

My heart breaks a little –later I will name it as pathetic _jealousy–_ but now, I know I can't do anything for Ron. I need to clear my head. I need to function. I need to make something of myself.

"Hey," Harry murmurs to me when I stand up. "Where are you–?"

"Outside. I need air," I say to cut to the point. I scrunch my face at my own harsh tone, but Harry only nods his understanding. He looks awful. Worse than Ron actually, and that's saying something. His eyes are puffed. Among many others especially for Ginny, I guess.

"I have to be somewhere else. Even if just a short while," I explain. "Will you–" I turn back to glance at a heaving Ron. I wince at his hiccups. "–Just look out for him, okay, Harry?"

Harry takes the place I vacated and it eases me that Ron talks to him. I don't know why I can't have him open up to me but I guess it must be because I'm not Harry.

I didn't cry when I learned Fred and Ginny were dead. I didn't cry when I saw Professor Lupin and Tonks' bodies. I didn't cry when I noticed Colin lying on those rotten clothes.

I was the one who sent a fatal curse to the werewolf that killed Lavender Brown.

I was the one who magically shoved a Death Eater off the bridge.

I was the one who eventually cast Avada Kedavra.

As I drag my feet outside, minding my steps around cobbles and hefty rocks, I think of exactly when I shut everything. I don't know. I really don't. Academically evaluating the situation, I know it is a form of Occlumency but I know that I didn't cast any spells. Among the numerous books I read of warding against Crucio or warding the mind magically in general, I came across a detailed explanation on the levels of Occlumency mastery.

I just doubt transforming theoretical knowledge into practice can be possible subconsciously.

No matter, it is relieving to take stock of events but feel detached from certain emotions. Different in a good way, especially knowing that I would have cried myself to sleep by now.

"Hermione! Hey," I turn to find Dean. "If you're going outside, check for survivors, yeah? We are short of people to help."

It is not a request I can decline. Although there are spells to check human presence, they won't aid me locating survivors. The spells get useless in vast places where people (in this case, the occupants of the Great Hall) are close by. It must be done manually– the reason Dean has asked for help, I suppose.

Shivering upon stepping outside, I hold my jacket tighter. The cold air refreshed me alright. Regardless of the burn behind my nose and slight slapping of the breeze on my face, it is better to be outside than the inside. Here it is still and quiet. Not like the Great Hall where cries and prayers fill the room and sorrow impeccably hangs in the air.

The blue of the sky is occasionally masked by smoke, but I have to admit this is the brightest I have seen the world. The past month, even if the sun peeked through clouds or reigned the skies by itself, I never stopped to consider that days are not hopeless and dark.

The war is over. We made it.

The thought makes me smile but it is unfortunately easy to remember exactly why I once thought that I would not make it to see another day. When I slowly drop my gaze and recognize people dead on the floor, I remember.

It isn't just stones and pillars littering the ground. Not only dead bodies of wizards and witches. There are giants and werewolves. Centaurs and vampires. Creatures. Dead. All of them.

I evade my eyes to strictly look at my steps, but in my vision comes body parts. Arms and legs. A severed head.

I walk around it to continue. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that Dean asked me to look around for survivors.

Among the hills of dead bodies, I doubt I can find a survivor.

My eyes search, either way. It gets easier to look when I separate the notion that bodies belonged to the living. Souls, I believe, are vital to what makes us alive. In search of Horcruxes, I learned and witnessed the proof that souls indeed exist. The locket I wore around my neck for days and Voldemort simply slipping into a constructed-body in the fourth year are enough evidence.

Gratefully, I don't pass by any dead body younger than myself. Occlumency or logic be damned, I might tip over the edge if that happened. Whether I would fall unconscious or cry uncontrollably, I don't know. I don't _want_ to know.

When I return, all of us will likely go back to Grimmauld Place. I can knock back a Sleeping Draught and postpone facing reality. That is a nice plan.

Better than to walk around the dead.

 _I should leave._

In my stupor, I'm not careful about deciding to return. The hand that I skipped over the first time, the one laying palm up and its owner hid elbow-up under other bodies, ends up in my way. I step on the wrist and nearly fall.

When I get my footing back, trying to suppress my gasps, a low groan reaches my ears. _No way_. Can it be alive? I mean, the hand? Its owner?

I get my hair out of the way and crouch next to the appendage. Maybe I can check for a pulse? Fingers on its wrist, the first thing I notice is that the skin is cold and clammy. Given, it wasn't a warm day for May, but someone who is not yet dead shouldn't be this cold.

It's not like I detect a pulse. Maybe I just misheard?

As if to prove me wrong, I hear another muffled groan. Then comes a sound similar to that of coming from a troubled chest. Wheezing, is it?

Whatever it is, I'm definitely sure that there is someone alive there.

Instinctively, I get a hold the body on top of it and push it away. The one I stepped on the hand of, is underneath two. All I see is its black clothes, but when I remove that first body of the survivor's legs, I notice the dense blood pool, half-clothed.

Just as I head to remove the second body, I slip on the red liquid. The squeak of my sneakers convulses my stomach. _Seriously?_

Nevermind. I successfully shove the second body, and finally, take a look at whom I revealed.

I gasp at recognizing the man. I can't believe–

There, lying on the cold stones, different than his usual pallor, his face blue-ish and himself donning expensive but dirtied robes, is no other than Lucius Malfoy. His scruffy white beard and ghastly face are nothing like how I remember him. Although on hindsight, he was not better looking back when I was brought to Bellatrix in their Manor.

It is this easy to know him because of his long silver-blond hair, though greasy and tainted with blood, curtains the floor and displays the trademark of the Malfoys.

He doesn't look alive, as far as I can see. Unmoving and unflinching. Maybe I imagined the sounds?

I saw many dead faces today and so many were similar to Malfoy Sr here. His chest doesn't rise and fall, even.

I hesitate. Although my conclusion of his dead state is fairly sound, I am unable to simply walk away. I know his wife is dead. Voldemort killed Narcissa Malfoy on the spot, calling her a liar and traitor, when Harry rose to fight, very much alive.

Creasing my brows at the reminder of Voldemort, that cold-blooded bastard, I feel bad for the man on the ground. The only death I _witnessed_ anyone close to me was that of Lavender's, and the girl has never been a friend of mine. I didn't see when Fred, Ginny, Tonks, _no one_ when they were murdered. Let alone see the one who did it.

I can't imagine what it's like to lose a wife in front of one's _eyes_. Then look back at the culprit but be unable to do anything. _Because Voldemort was his master._

What happened to Draco, I wonder. He should have sought for his father, surely?

I look around for Malfoy, for no apparent reason. It is not like the blond boy will come out of nowhere to claim his father's dead body. He must be in the Great Hall, silently wrapping his wounds–

My eyes stop at the flicker of pale-blond colour on the ground. Hair, to be exact. The light hit it just so. It is only a few feet away from Malfoy Sr.'s body.

This time drawing out my wand, I hold it up in front of me. It is an instinct to defend myself, not that I think dead bodies could rise and... Okay, there were no Inferi here. Maybe I shouldn't read as much as I do.

Clearing my head off ridiculous thoughts, I simply wave my wand at one of the bodies covering top-half of my target, and it is removed. It makes me uneasy to hear my steps as I come closer and circle around to see the face.

He lies face down, and even before I turn him, I know it's Malfoy.

Looking back at the father and son, my heart shatters hopefully one last time today. It is an easy conclusion to come: After losing his wife, Lucius Malfoy and his son were reunited to die together. Tragic.

War simply breaks apart families.

At least, Malfoy Sr. doesn't have to live with the death of his son, as Molly and Arthur do with their two children.

The Malfoys deserving their fate or not, I can't help but grieve for Malfoy. He was young. As old as I am. And neither of us were meant to be fighting at the year that we were supposed to be graduating from Howgarts and stepping into adulthood in the Wizarding World to make something out of our lives.

I sigh. I know there is no use wishing the war to have not happened, it won't bring back Draco Malfoy or his father or mother.

Just when I think my business here is done, I'm alerted by a faint sound. A whine.

With my wand in hand, this time I realize how I can actually cast diagnostic spells on Malfoy Sr. _I'm an idiot._

Even before I cast any spells, this time I am properly convinced the sound comes from him and the man is indeed alive. I can't imagine all of it.

I rise from beside Malfoy and walk to Malfoy Sr. There are no visible wounds on his face, but he has bled considerably, mostly on the ground. The front of his robes is soaked, too. I press my free hand there and for once I'm not surprised I cause the man to groan. In pain.

Shite. He is alive, isn't he?

I cast every spell I know and conclude, yes, Malfoy Sr is indeed alive, but he is at risk of dying for good.

Apparently, he was stunned at one point. Not that the spell hasn't faded. But it would explain why the man had not gotten up and sought help himself before his condition had worsened to this extent. He is heavily injured, not so severe that I can't save him, but enough that he would die if left for his own devices.

And really, if it wasn't for me, he would have died for sure. There is no one in the perimeter looking around, even the few that helped Dean are absent. Perhaps on a break.

And really, who will miss Lucius Malfoy, the blood purist, Death Eater and Voldemort's dog?

The Malfoy name is among the ones that will never be uttered. This man has sided with Voldemort, pursued the eradication of my people, and made the aim of his life to remind Muggleborns that we don't belong in the Wizarding society.

It is all his wrong choices that got him bleeding on the ground, half-dead, his wife and son already gone.

This predicament seems fit to be his punishment, I can't help but think. And it wouldn't be my fault or lack of virtue to leave him like this to accept his fate. Lucius Malfoy deserves it.

The man stirs. By no means, he is able to rise, but he moves his face slightly towards me. His eyes find mine in difficulty. I see the slight movement of his lips and hear the strained voice, but it isn't anything coherent.

I lean to hear him better just when he forces to speak louder, "Draco."

It takes all my willpower not to glance at the body not so far away from us. Does he know? Gazing to his rather expressive eyes, I know he knows. I just do.

And it is a fact I can't easily let go. Has Malfoy Sr. lied here, unable to move, waiting to die, _knowing_ that his son was dead next to him? Has he been here when Draco was killed? Has he tried to protect him? And failed to do so?

He has been fatally injured, in between all of that.

For once in my life, I don't know what to do. Yes, I thought of leaving the man to die, and I know that I can make peace with that choice eventually, but I just _can't._ Even in this state, the man sacrificed his meagre energy to ask for his son. All he had. Used to have. It is family first, for Malfoy Sr.

And knowing especially that, I want to try an alternative. But nothing comes to my mind.

I can heal Malfoy Sr and turn him in, but the remaining years of his life in Azkaban would be the more cruel option compared to simple death. With nothing to do in that cell but to think of his family's death on top of all of his blasted choices that led to their downfall, I wouldn't be doing any favour in the end. Only assuming his inmates wouldn't torture and kill him for his failure to serve the Dark Lord to success.

Dammit, there has to be something I can do.

Lucius Malfoy feels not so distant to me with how he helplessly lost his loved ones. Maybe mine was choice, wiping away my parents' memories, but I know the grief of losing a family just like Lucius Malfoy knows. I did what I had to do to protect them. My parents are my everything. I lost them all the same. They are lost for me.

So are Draco and Narcissa.

Thinking again, I decide that I didn't experience loss anywhere close to what Malfoy Sr feels right now, actually. And it is cold-hearted to stand by as this could be the last thing he experiences alive.

And maybe it isn't me who can judge a man and give his sentence. As a muggle-born witch who fought for her life, if I can't decide for Malfoy Sr, the Ministry people who know nothing about loss or who undermine guilt and grief, was definitely not the ones to decide here. They didn't know anything about us– not before the War, not during the War, and even with Kingsley a prospective Minister, they wouldn't be fair _after_ the War. They know nothing. _We survived a war._

And that's when I think of a third option. Not death or Azkaban. I can walk away with a clear conscious for this man at the verge of death who is at my mercy. I can provide him with a second chance, and no one would be affected by it. No one but the life I would save.

I raise my wand at him, noting how his pupils dilate in distress.

"It is going to be fine," I assure him. Both of us aware the colour of the light at the tip of my wand could as well be the green of Avada. "Promise."

It is white, instead.

I will send Dean to find him, is my last thought as I clear my head to get to work. It won't be a simple task. "Obliviate."

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 **THIS IS MY FINAL WIP. At least before I finish a few.**

 **SO, hope you enjoyed it. This is a style I haven't used in AGES. First person AND present tense? Wow. Curious to your thoughts ;D**

 **Ydream08**


	2. Chapter 1

**Safe Risk**

 _by Ydream08_

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Chapter 1

I stretch, stretch and reach as further up as I can manage. Hearing cracks from my spine and feeling the sweet burning of my muscles, I groan contently. How long has it been? Writing this article was harder than I thought! My fingers are stiff, for starters.

I push my chair back but getting to my feet stands to be a problem. The tingling arising from my toes to climb at my legs is quite familiar. When I act to rub my thighs, the quill I forgot about leaves a black line of ink.

"Nice," I mutter just as I put the quill back to lick my finger.

"Ew," comes the sound of my one and only love. "Don't clean it with your spit."

The deed is already done, so just to annoy him I lick my ink-stained finger one last time. It's funny how he scrunches his face. His shriek is funnier when I act to swipe that licked-finger on him.

The little tyke runs away from my reach, though.

"Leave me alone, Aunt Hermione!" Teddy screams behind one of the bookshelves. I don't support playing in the library, especially here in Grimmauld Place where some books can never be trustworthy to hide behind.

"Fine, fine! I'm clean."

The peek of his bubblegum pink hair gives away his curious looks. "Promise?"

I smile at his timid voice. Come to think of it, he sounds scruffy. As if he has woken up in the middle of-

"Shite," I mutter, forgetting small Teddy in the room. It is pitch black outside, isn't it? I cast Lumos hours ago to continue writing my article. Its application is due tomorrow.

Teddy must have woken up from a nightmare, the only reason he can be up at this hour. He hasn't seen one in weeks- at least not one that bothered him enough to find me in the library.

"That's a bad word, Aunt Hermione. And you haven't promised yet! You are still yucky."

"Ah, Teddy, luv," I walk to him just when a muffled but loud crash comes from outside. A thunderstorm. Teddy jumps away from his hiding place and runs to me, immediately embracing me. I pet his head where it is buried to my jumper. He is so small. "It's alright, duck. It will pass. I'm here."

I didn't realize the weather was this bad, being stuck in the Black library, but Harry is supposed to be home. He tucked Teddy to sleep, too.

"Teddy, where is Harry?" Before Teddy can even rush out of his room to Harry in his fright of thunder, Harry would be already there. "Is he not home?" Has the Aurors called him in? He disappears to Auror business on bizarre hours even as the Head of the Department.

Teddy shakes his head, tickling me unintended. "A Patronus came to my room when he was about to say goodnight."

Auror business it is, then.

I let the embrace loose to crouch in front of Teddy.

The blue in his grey eyes stands out due to the reddish hue of his eyes. I wipe away his stray tears and smile. This is how little Teddy cries. He barely whimpers. Sniffing repeatedly, Teddy always sheds fat tears. He is a silent and kind boy.

"Hey, I'm here. I may not be an Auror like Uncle Harry, but I do more than write essays." I cast a brighter Lumos and wordlessly illuminate the whole room. "I'm your witch to come in any case, don't forget that."

At that, Teddy cries harder. Oh Gordic, he is such a sweetheart. How am I ever going to see him off to Hogwarts? I may cry harder than him or even Andromeda!

"Come here," I whisper. My heart squeezes at how readily he jumps to my arms. I'm blessed to have him in my life. "What do you say we go back upstairs? We can read together until the storm passes?"

"Yes, please," Teddy manages. The hard part is trying to untangle him from my neck. Because I'm crouching, he easily wrapped his arms around my neck and buried his head to my shoulder. He has a strong grip, no wonder with how the noise of the storm persists.

"Okay, let me pick you up, then," I declare and my lower back regrets the decision as rising up with a little _monkey_ tied to myself is not simply effortless. Teddy has become heavy. Must be because of Harry's cooking. He manages to feed this boy five pounds worth in a span of merely two days!

"Alright, up we go."

I'm grateful when I can finally place Teddy on the bed. He scurries inside the blankets, which I envy because it is chilly here. I should really pack away my shorts from summer as the weather is no longer fit for them. Sure, I only wear them home, but recasting Warming Charms are tiring while my concentration has to be elsewhere.

I climb in next to Teddy lest I freeze to death. We take our usual position: I encircle Teddy and he gladly rests his head by my chest where he can follow the book as I slowly read. Teddy learned to read and write around five, but because I read him more advanced books for his age of seven, I occasionally point the words as I read or stop to converse with Teddy to assess his understanding of the story.

Whenever Andromeda's illness gets worse, we have Teddy over. Recently it has been more frequent, and he stays over longer. Andromeda isn't faring well, but Harry and I try our best not to let Teddy notice this. Harry cooks with Teddy and teaches him to fly, whereas I read to Teddy and teach him to control his magic.

The first few years, while Harry got to work with renovations of Grimmauld Place, all four of us lived at Andromeda's cottage. Happy times, they were. Not the happiest for all of us, unfortunately.

It took Harry so long to become himself again. Ginny's loss wrecked him beyond measure. It didn't help to visit the Weasleys for the sake of seeing Ron. And eventually, Harry stopped going to the Burrow altogether. I followed suit for Harry and Teddy both, but in the end, it was for the convenience of it. It was not like Ron was seeking me out and I had to study and sit down my NEWTs that first year. Not to mention, Teddy and Andromeda needed me more. Better not forget about my acceptence into master's degree on Charms and later on thesis. There was just so many things going on for me, and those didn't include Ron.

Time just flew by.

Feeling the weight of my memories, I take a deep breath.

Did I zone out, just now? It is quiet here. Very much so.

That's when my eyes fall back to the book and I realize I have stopped reading. Glancing back at the tousled brown hair and its owner, I notice Teddy has fallen asleep. His soft breathing is the only distinguishable sound. The storm has ceased, as well.

I close the book and put it to the side-table. Smoothing Teddy's hair out of my face, I note how its colour and curliness are similar to mine right now. I forget sometimes that he is a Metamorphmagus.

The kiss that I leave on top of his head thankfully doesn't stir him up. Somewhat declining on the pillow, I find a better position to get a sleep of my own.

Godric curse it, but sleep doesn't easily come to me as I recall what atrocity I actually wrote for an article. _Scrolls_ of it. Really, I should get up and fix it. Only if I wasn't sleeping next to Teddy...

There are only two renowned journals dedicated to Charms, and getting rejected by both would be a disaster. Of course, I have many original articles of my own published already in both of them. But unlike this time, those were on theoretical analysis of Memory charms, their effects on a variety of creatures, and prevalence of its victims among different countries throughout the Wizarding History.

I have been discreet on my study of _reversing_ the charm, but I met a person who changed my mind.

The past two years, I have been in collaboration with a Healer in St. Mungo's whose articles on the medical treatment of patients with Memory charms were largely acknowledged. Healer Lauren Adamswort has published many case reports from both the first and second Wizarding Wars. While none of her patients has shown any promise of curation, their overall healthy brain functions and successful anterograde memory processings are noteworthy. Reasons Adamswort has become a name among the masters of Charms.

Having the chance to work with the elder witch, I was able to go through her methodology to improve my own method that I developed years back. I believe there is a chance that the two of us can finally solve the enigma of reversing a memory charm, in fact.

And the article I finished writing two hours back, catalogues the first ever article on the results of this new method on five Obliviated patients of similar degrees of memory loss.

The results aren't spectacular since the most successful patient regained up to forty percent of his memory for only two weeks before he had a psychotic breakdown and killed himself. Fortunately, he was the only deceased patient. The remaining four were simply replaced to the Psychiatry ward for complete loss of sane reasoning.

Healer Adamswort is more hopeful than I am for the success of the article, but that really doesn't matter to me. Sure, I want to make a quality article favouring the reputation I built at a young age, but for me, the real success would be when I achieve complete curation.

Sighing, I try to force those thoughts out of my head. The article has to be a success if I want to continue my research.

So I better wake up early the next morning and go over my writing. Yes, I'll do that. And have Healer Adamswort read it as well. For a witch her age, Healer Adamswort is by far among the sharpest minds I know. If it's the two of us, our research will give fruit, I'm sure of it.

What is the alternative anyway? Give up on a life where my father knows who he actually is? Whom her daughter is?

I embrace Teddy tighter and close my eyes shut.

 _Never._

* * *

Finding Healer Adamswort's office in St. Mungo's empty, I walk back to the registry to ask her whereabouts. The elder witch has a habit of rising early and never have I failed to find her in the office. At least not once without her prior notice.

"Unfortunately, she hasn't checked in," says the clerk behind the desk. I mutter my thanks and walk out of the hospital.

I have to go the Ministry to submit the article for first step application but with the revisions I made on it, I really wanted Healer Adamswort to go over it beforehand. My plan was to spend an hour or two here in St. Mungo's and rush to the Ministry before the lunch break.

Just as I'm thinking about going back to use the Floo network to the Ministry, an owl drops a letter by my feet. I curiously take it and watch the owl fly away for a few moments. Who in earth has sent me a letter at this hour?

Surprisingly, it's from Healer Adamswort. Of course, she has left me a message! Reading the letter in haste, I smile at the news that Healer Adamswort had to leave for the Ministry for an urgent call.

Coincidence or not, it is perfect that I can drop by Healer Adamswort first and then submit the article.

The Ministry is dreary as it always is. Stern people, wearing dark colours, walking briskly. Floos flashing non-stop is nothing compared to the sea of people rushing about. Looking up at the ceiling of the atrium, it feels like the walls around me are getting closer and closer as the darkness above descends. Dementors no longer lurk in that blackness but the chill climbs my spine each time I enter here.

Reaching the lift and cramping inside, I take note of the wizards and witches. The bewitched scrolls hovering above our heads are restless to be delivered, but the two wizards discussing the latest development in their department is the most distracting among everything.

I envy them, I have to admit.

A while back, I dreamed of walking these corridors, having my own office, working in the ranks of this magical organization. How long ago was that? Years. Before the war. Before everything.

There was a time… in Shell Cottage, when Remus was still alive… I remember our conversation right after I recovered. Dobby's death was fresh, so was Harry's devastation. My arm hurt. The scar scorched me alive.

Remus was there to keep me company. He talked to me, explained to me, that pain is yet another injury that would scar, and as we grew the scars seemed smaller in comparison.

We grow as a person.

One more thing Remus made me think that day was to fight… fight for my rights. _Keep fighting._ Never ever let anyone convince me I don't belong.

Remus belonged with us. Dobby belonged with us. I belonged with them.

After the war, that persistence sparked the idea of joining the Law Enforcement. In Remus' memory, in Dobby's memory, I could change the Wizarding Britain once and for all.

That was before I visited my parents that August planning naively to reverse the Obliviate spell. I was a fool then.

The ring of the lift brings me back to now and I shake off the clinging morose to step outside.

Everything has changed. It is no good to linger in the past. And that is what I will do.

I take a deep breath, concentrate and nod. As if with the motion, I feel curtains fall in my mind to divide my thoughts and obscure the heaviest and most troubling ones. Oh, I know this feeling. The slight breeze inside my mind that vanquishes the noise and density accumulating right inside my head.

Funny, how defensive I am of my own mind while I care little of others'. Hypocrisy, truly.

Holding tighter of my briefcase, I walk where Healer Adamswort wrote she would go: ' _My apologies. I won't be in the office for today as I'll visit the Ministry. Minister Shacklebolt himself has requested my presence'._

I haven't seen Kingsley in some time. The last time might be when the Dumbledore's Army officially dispersed. We come across at certain events but they can't be counted since the best we exchange are pleasantries.

"Minister is not available," the secretary replies at my approach.

I look around to note the empty hall and the closed office room. I smile at the wizard but it's in vain as he is staring intently at the parchment in front of him.

"I'm looking for Healer Lauren Adamswort." I don't like to play games but names matter. "It's Hermione Granger."

That wins me the shocked glance. Never tires, does it? Without exception, I empathize with Harry.

"Of course," the wizard gasps. He reminds me of an old version of Percy. A messier one. How did he even manage to lend this job? "Minister had to leave as I mentioned to you. He'll be back shortly. Healer Adamswort is inside waiting for him. Let me..."

I doubt Kingsley will be mad at me for barging into his room. At least when he is absent.

"Healer Adamswort?"

My voice startles the elder witch who splutters an exclamation with her wrinkled hand on her chest. "Oh, child, you scared me!"

"I'm sorry. I wanted to show you the article before I submit it."

She waves it off and reaches her hand out. I wordlessly hand her the article and watch in excitement as the two halves of Healer Adamswort's glasses magically come together on the bridge of her nose, aiding her to read.

"Yes, yes," she mumbles but there are sighs in between her skim-through that gets me worried.

"You don't like it?" I blurt out.

"It's not your writing, dear, this is remarkable." She removes her glasses wordlessly with the wave of her wand. Her green eyes are lively but old. Not only the wrinkles and the bags under her eyes; it is the way she stares at me without blinking that emphasizes her age. It is her patience.

I feel young under her gaze.

"Minister Shacklebolt has called me in for a consultation. About Memory Charms as you might guess. Reading the results again of our recent work, it reminds me how hopeless this situation is…"

I don't understand. Not the consultation part, that was common for Healer Adamswort, but what situation was she talking about specifically?

"I don't understand."

"It's complicated, dear. Nothing like I imagined! Remember the ancient family– the Malfoys? Should I say _the_ Malfoy? Well, who would have guessed the family would be down to one? Sad, truly sad."

Healer Adamswort is a traditionalist. Not a blood-purist but someone who values roots and recalls fondly the ways things have been done. And before the Wars (yes, she was present for both of them) she remembered the good the Malfoys and many ancient families did, regardless of how absurd I think it is to believe. It must be through charities and donation, I wager.

"Ministry has been tight-lipped of the state of the Malfoys, you know dear. As I have been informed, Mr Lucius Malfoy's trial will be soon, or was it a re-trial? Honestly, the Aurors didn't even knock before they interrupted us! Minister had to leave for urgent business and couldn't explain any further."

I think I'm hearing wrong. Lucius Malfoy? It just can't be happening… What trial? Hasn't the man had one? I remember reading that his trial had been seen, not that I recall his sentence. Only Harry had been allowed in his trial and news had been secretive.

"Minister Shacklebolt has asked me on my progress of treating the Obliviated patients. I said my expertise is not as narrow as Obliviate only, that's your curiosity, dear. But before he let me explain our most recent experiment, Minister was asking all these questions about the Malfoys, sorry, _just_ Mr Malfoy. I… Well, when the Minister comes back he will ask me to help in the trial I understand, it must be ongoing. I don't know how severe the memory charm cast on Mr Malfoy's mind, but this must be the reason they ask of me."

I really don't know what to say. It was me who Obliviated him. I _know_ what I did to his mind. I made him anew. I forged him a new life where the last decade never happened precisely the way it did. If he knew what had become of him, I doubt Malfoy Sr's end will be better than that psychotic patient. He shouldn't remember anything. Not even for two weeks.

If it comes out I was the one who Obliviated him, the Ministry would look into me. And what they will find won't be pretty.

"I don't know what I can do for the Minister, but anything I can help with, I'm willing to try," adds Healer Adamswort.

Well, Kingsley has asked the wrong person, it seems. If it were not for me, Healer Adamswort would not be able to witness any Obliviated patient regaining their previously lost memories, however small percent.

It is my spell, runes and ritual that accomplished that.

But Healer Adamswort knows the spell in the end. I shared it with her. And if she brings Lucius Malfoy to his true self, he will also share his knowledge. Of the day I pointed my wand at him, when I promised him it would be alright. If all that came out and at last, if I am sat at a seat in a trial and given Veritaserum, it will be over.

Can I present the results of our study, this article, to Kingsley and convince him not to do it, that if the reverse-memory charm is applied, Lucius Malfoy will not be guaranteed to regain all of the memories _and_ the process will most likely break his mind?

Kingsley will surely change his mind! What other choice is there? What is worth killing a man?

The thought makes me stop as suspicion settle at the back of my mind. I can hardly swallow with the tightness of my throat.

This whole thing isn't right. Why does Kingsley ask for consultation _now_? It's been seven years. Seven bloody years for him to arrange and finish that stupid trial. He would have needed consultation back then, and Healer Adamswort would have politely declined.

She didn't know the possibility of regaining back memories back then.

Now she does and she won't decline the wish of the Minister. She will doom me to a disaster of my past mistake.

Is it a mistake, though? I remember that day, when I walked in the schoolyard, saw all those dead bodies, found Draco and his father lying side by side. By no means I abided the law, but no one has convicted me for casting Avada, so why judge me for what I did to Lucius Malfoy?

 _You helped_ him _evade the law_ , a voice whisper in my head. _Evade Azkaban_.

I dismiss the thought, knowing that if I would have a true trial in the end, I would be put to Azkaban not only for one singular act. The Australian Ministry of Magic would get involved as well. It would be a mess.

I really have too much hanging on this thread.

 _Maybe_ … just maybe… I can convince both Healer Adamswort and Kingsley that I do the job. If it's me in charge, I can figure a way out of this without leaving a trail, or at least delay it till I find a safe solution.

What 'maybe' am I spouting? I must definitely stand up to take the job. There is no alternative.

My heart beating extremely fast, I focus back to Healer Adamswort. The article has to wait before publication. The results would raise controversy on Malfoy's situation.

Before I know what the hell is going on, I don't know whether that controversy would be a loss or gain.

So I hopefully smile knowing the heat warming my cheeks is not from embarrassment but because of panic clawing at my conscience. _Mum, forgive me, I'm doing this father._

" _Confundus_ ," I mutter and watch as Healer Adamswort lose her orientation. It will be a tiny adjustment… I will only make her forget the reverse-memory charm. Not that we performed it and it was possible, but its specific incantations, wording, and process will be lost to her. While at it, I better make her forget that I finished the article, so that there won't be any pressure on me to publish it any time soon. The rest will be the same.

Then, I can ask Healer Adamswort to let me do the work of consulting on this case and proceed to talk with Kingsley about it.


End file.
